


Pride and Extreme Prejudice

by UncreativeKitten



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Sex, Bridgerton vibes, Crack, Duke Hannibal Lecter, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is Whipped, Hannibal Lector is Ambigiously Evil, Happy Murder Family, He's not, Humor, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Slow Burn, Smut, Switching, Will Graham & Beverly Katz Friendship, Will Graham Hates Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham is So Done, Will is a Sexy Groundkeeper, eventual Murder Family, m/m and w/w solidarity, or is he???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29244459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncreativeKitten/pseuds/UncreativeKitten
Summary: You want Jane Austen-esque sexy banter? You want Will Graham hating the bourgeoisie and being overly protective of his dogs? How about Hannibal Lector as a suave, lecherous Duke who host gender and sexuality inclusive orgies whilst wistfully thinking of Will? Background character shenanigans? Hannibal painting Will as an excuse to talk to him? Or long scenes of sexual tension whilst chopping wood? And who can forget ~spicy~ hot scenes?*deep breath*Boy do I have the fic for you.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 131





	1. Kill the Bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who watched like three episodes of Bridgerton and decided they wanted to write a Hannibal regency fic. This enby. Strap in or strap on, I write this at like 1am, am slightly dyslexic, and have no beta reader.

The dog had to be killed.

Lady Lounds was a fickle and tenacious creature who likely rose from the seafoam of Judas seed; however, her dreadful yellow pages gossip rag had influence. The masses loved upper class scandals, and self-proclaimed “Lady” Lounds eagerly filled their coffers. If news got out about a dog nearly biting her then all hell would break loose.

His Grace the Duke of Gaysex, Hannibal Lector was a straightforward man. If killing one bitch would placate the other bitch then so be it.

The incident had occurred at a ball Hannibal had hosted. All the usual suspects were there. Constable Crawford and his wife Bella had been perfectly charming guest. Jack regaled crowds of eager onlookers with fascinating tales of the criminal underbelly, while Bella effortlessly curtailed the gory details. The late Dr. Chilton, not late in death just late in arrival because he thought it was fashionable, swept in wearing and atrocious peacock of a suit. He titillated guests with discussions of his latest endeavors to study the human mind. Criminal heads, he had been studying, tended to be larger than the heads of the complacent.

Lord and Lady Verger, the brother and sister duo who had inherited the Verger slaughterhouse empire, had made an appearance. Both had caused a stir in their own unique ways. Mason, the imprudent welp of a man, had arrived drunk and only gotten drunker. Meanwhile, Lady Verger had notably spent the majority of the evening ignoring every man who tried to speak to her and simmering with anger in a quiet corner.

Lady Lounds had shown up without an invitation.

“My Lord Duke,” she had greeted him.

“Lady Lounds,” Hannibal had greeted back. “How gracious of you to bless us with an appearance. I say bless because surely it must have been an angel who sent you an invitation, as it was not I.”

She had smiled her weedy little smile.

“The only prayers I listen to are rumors, your grace.”

“And what say the angels?” Hannibal inquired.

“It would be...impious of me to reveal all,” Lady Lounds said, her sly and insufferable smirk still slapped across her face. “But I’ve heard tell of a salacious affair.”

“Are the perpetrators amongst us?” Hannibal asked with a good-natured conspiratorial tone. “I shall be careful to keep my bedroom locked.”

“You are no fun,” Lady Lounds said. “Come now your grace, my readers are dying to know when the country's most elusive bachelor, the Duke of Gaysex, will at last be shackled. Would it kill you to have an affair every now and then?”

Hannibal smiled. He knew as well as Freddie what the rumors surrounding him were. That he, the Duke, was a devilish man who reveled in the sin of lust. That he invited prostitutes into his bedroom and organized orgies where sodomy and sex went hand in hand. That he preyed upon males as well as female—thus allowing him to avoid the scandal of pregnancy whilst satiating his desires.

Naturally, it was all true. 

“Matters of the heart are foreign to me, I’m afraid,” Hannibal said. “But you shall be the first I tell if ever I find my Aphrodite.”

“I await expectantly,” she said. Hannibal bowed slightly.

“Please, do not let me keep you from making your rounds," Hannibal said. It was a gracious and socially acceptable way to tell Freddie stick her nose up another person's ass.

Freddie’s smile twitched a fraction, betraying her annoyance. She was gunning for his ruin, Hannibal knew. It wasn’t malicious; Freddie just knew a whale when she saw one and Hannibal was her Moby Dick. She returned his slight bow and turned to mingle with the rest of the party.

“You hate her,” came a voice from behind him.

Hannibal turned to meet the face of his ward, Abigail. Her freckled face was a mask of self-righteous awareness.

“Abigail,” Hannibal said with a smile. “You look splendid in blue.”

“Why don’t you just throw her out?” she asked, ignoring the polite chit-chat.

“Lady Lounds is an esteemed member of our society. Throwing her out would be very rude.” She’d cause a huge stink in her paper about being manhandled and disrespected if he threw her out. Besides, she had her uses at times.

“She’s a gossip writer with a trashy column.”

“A literary treasure who crosses class boundaries,” Hannibal said diplomatically.

“A nag,” Abigail corrected.

“Where is your governess?” Hannibal asked. He glanced around for Alana Bloom, Abigail’s private tutor and personal companion.

“Probably hiding in a corner somewhere,” Abigail said. "You know she loathes coming to these parties. They mock her for being of “low” birth.”

It was true. Hannibal had hired Alana as Abigail’s governess to provide her not only with a proper education, but also a suitable female figure in her life. As Abigail’s chaperone, she was allowed to come to balls. However, a governess would always be a governess. Guest frequently speculated why Hannibal allowed her to be there.

Ah. So _that_ was the salacious affair that Freddie had been insinuating. No doubt, the rumor had spread that Hannibal was bedding his ward’s governess. Alas, if only they knew that Alana had no interest in him. No interest in any "him” for that matter.

“I loathe these parties too honestly,” Abigail said. “May I go visit the dogs?”

“Dogs?” Hannibal questioned.

“Yeah, the groundskeeper has loads of dogs,” Abigail said as she tugged at the stiff collar of her dress.

“What groundskeeper?” Abigail ’s eyes narrowed.

“Really?” she asked. “You let a fish through your net? I’m shocked.”

“I’m not in the habit of being on personal terms with all of my staff.”

“You know what,” Abigail decided, crossing her arms. “I’m not going to say anything. He's a nice man, better he gets left alone honestly.”

Hannibal’s suspicions were moderately raised, but not too the point of action. Abigail was a personable girl; she liked making friends among the lower classes. She herself was of low birth, but becoming Hannibal’s ward gave her considerably new status. Hannibal was content to let her develop fancies where she liked, so long as she maintained her studies and kept up the occasional appearance.

The rest of the evening went smoothly. The band played beautifully for the fluttering masses of delicately fitted ladies in their lace and frilled dresses. Abigail tolerated a couple of dances and had several young men absolutely head over heels by the end of the night. Hannibal never saw Alana, nor did he see Lady Margot Verger for the rest of the night.

And then...the _incident_ had occurred.

Beverly, one of Hannibal’s most trusted servants, had discreetly scurried to Hannibal’s side and whispered to him that,

“Your grace, there has been a confrontation in the gardens between the Lady Lounds and a, uh, dog.”

He nodded his acknowledgment without displaying any emotion. Then quietly, he had slipped away from the party and arrived with Beverly onto a heated scene. The scene was between the Lady Freddie Lounds, a dog, and an unknown man in plain clothes covered in dirt.

“She didn’t do you any harm,” the man said.

“Any harm?!” Freddie shouted. “She nearly ripped my throat out.”

[Freddie's "WTF did you just say to me" face]

“I saw it unfold,” the man said calmly. “She merely barked at you.”

In the darkness of the night, it was hard to get a clear look at the man. But Hannibal could smell him. He smelled like sweat and soil, a rarity in Hannibal’s world of perfume and flowers. Hannibal cut into the conversation between them. 

“What seems to be the issue?”

“Your grace,” Freddie said, her voice trembling with strained and clearly fake distress. “This...mongrel...most viciously tried to attack me as I was innocently taking a night stroll.”

The dog in question growled. The unknown man knelt down beside the dog, rubbing his dirt-stained hands through the animal's fur.

“Calm girl,” he soothed. “She’s no threat.”

“I’m no threat!?” Freddie declared in disgust.

“Yes, you see animals--”

“Your grace,” Freddie cut in, turning to Hannibal. “I apologize for causing such a scene but I’m afraid that I must insist that dog be punished.”

“Now hold on a minute,” the unknown man said, rising to his feet.

“Might I get your name?” Hannibal asked. The man went stiff. For their entire interaction, the man had not looked at Hannibal once. Even now, as he turned to face Hannibal, his eyes were downcast.

“William Graham...the groundskeeper...your grace.”

Hmm...he wondered why Abigail thought it better for Hannibal to not meet this mottled, messy man. He was well built, Hannibal noted. However, facially the man was an enigma, a mop of brown curls masked part of his face. He did have an air about him that Hannibal found hard to pin down. He seemed steadfast enough to defend the dog, yet completely meek when it came to a simple introduction. Although, to be fair, he was talking to a Duke—specifically the Duke who employed him. A level of meekness was expected and encouraged.

“Is this your dog Mr. Graham?” The groundskeeper shifted nervously under Hannibal’s gaze. Hannibal’s head tilted suspiciously to one side.

“In a manner of speaking yes,” he answered hesitantly.

“What manner do you speak?”

“I’m not fond of the idea of ownership over a creature,” Mr. Graham answered, more confident. “But I take responsibility for her.”

[Will's "I'm so f-king done with rich people" face] Source: @lecteredwill (tumblr)

 _Ah, a humanitarian._ How delightful, Hannibal thought.

“Lady Lounds,” Hannibal said, turning to his uninvited guest. “I’m sure we can find a solution to defend your honor.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I want that mongrel put down.” Anger flared across Mr. Graham’s face.

“You shouldn’t make threats against mutts equal to you in social standing,” he spat.

The night air, which was relatively cool for summer, crackled with righteous anger. Freddie Lounds drew herself up to her full height, preparing for a full-frontal oral assault. Meanwhile, Hannibal was doing arithmetic in his head to keep from laughing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Beverly’s face in a similar state of tense resistance to humor.

source: [@existingcharactersdiehorribly](https://www.tumblr.com/register/follow/existingcharactersdiehorribly)

“I have never," Lady Lounds began.

“Lady Lounds,” Hannibal cut in. She flinched at the interruption; it had been sharp but gentle--like the soft poke of a needle. “It has been a fine party. Let us not let this one incident spoil the night. Allow me to escort you to your carriage and we can discuss an adequate solution to your besmirchment.”

“I am not leaving until that man is fired.”

“Are you making demands on my estate?” Hannibal asked, his voice quiet and chilled. His tight smile did not reach his eyes. “Freddie.”

Freddie’s face of rage and self-entitlement stiffened. She drew herself up, but the flame wasn’t quite there anymore.

“Of course not, your grace,” she said coolly.

“Beverly,” Hannibal called. Beverly stepped forward.

“Yes, your grace.”

“Please escort Lady Lounds to the mansion. I need to have a brief word with Mr. Graham.” Beverly nodded and took Freddie away. The two women disappearing into the night.

Hannibal turned to the still enraged, scruffy man. The dog was still protectively at her master’s side and it was hard to distinguish who was the more feral between man and beast. Mr. Graham’s quip had been entertaining, but brash. What more, it put Hannibal in an awkward position.

Hannibal took in the troublesome, twitchy man while he pondered what to do. Abigail’s words still tickled the back of his mind. “You let a fish slip through your net?” Now that his eyes had adjusted to the moonlight, it was all becoming clearer—both figuratively and literally.

Mr. Graham was quite the attractive fellow. A little mangy certainty. He needed a scrub and a bath or three but there was potential there. Ragged brown curls attempted to hide deep, soulful eyes and stubble was growing over a beautifully chiseled chin. His shirt was loose and stained with sweat, but lean muscles forged by tending the land peaked out beneath the thin, worn cloth.

The groundskeeper raised a hand to rub the back of his neck nervously. Hannibal couldn’t help but notice the way the movement made his arm muscles tightened or how lovely the man’s neck was.

Mr. Graham took a breath.

“My Lord Duke,” he started. Hannibal realized that some time had passed in tense silence while he had been admiring Mr. Graham. In that time, the groundskeeper's emotions had simmered from rage to uncomfortable embarrassment. “I fear I have made a poor first impression. I do not wish to encroach on your kindness, particularly when we are strangers to one another, but I must beg a pardon on behalf of my dog.”

The groundskeeper crossed his arms, and again, Hannibal found himself admiring the solid build of the working-class man. Perhaps, breaking down class boundaries was a more amiable pursuit than he had initially thought.

“My ward speaks well of you, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal said finally. “However, your behavior tonight has inconvenienced me greatly.”

“I understand sir.” His tone was slightly bitter—it was subtle enough that most people wouldn’t have caught it. 

So, Hannibal realized, that is what had been difficult to pin down about Mr. Graham. His mannerism were that of a man hiding deep-seated contempt. He _hated_ Hannibal, despised everything Hannibal stood for. A more honest admission would have been “I understand sir, that you are my social superior and I have no power in this conversation but nonetheless, you are a rake and a bastard who I resent having to bow my head too.”

How amusing.

[Hannibal's "I think I found a new toy" face]

“I must attend to Freddie now,” Hannibal stated. “I shall make a decision on the morrow, but do not prepare for a kind judgement.”

Mr. Graham’s body was tight and tense with frustration and rage, but he nodded mutely and swallowed his pride.

“Yes, thank you...your grace. I shall retire and await your call.” The groundskeeper bowed slightly and patted his leg to attract the attention of the dog. For the briefest flicker of a moment, Hannibal caught the other man’s eyes darting to a dark corner of the gardens, before he turned to walk off.

Hannibal’s eyes drifted to the dark corner of the gardens. He smelled the lingering scent of soap and lady’s perfume.

Had this Mr. Graham been romancing a young woman, he wondered. A delicious affair between commoner and lady? That was just the kind of thing Freddie would have been hounding for. He smiled to himself, perhaps the groundskeeper was more interesting than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send help, I could not stop smiling to myself for a whole day after I wrote this chapter and I couldn't explain to anyone that my good mood was because I am writing a fic where it's a ~mystery~ why Hannibal is still a bachelor when he is literally the Duke of Gaysex.


	2. A Distracted Duke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if the images cause issues for phone users.

“You seem distracted today,” Bedelia noted. Hannibal stopped staring out the window of the sitting room to face his guest. They were in the sitting room, surrounded by decorative chairs and tables so lavish you felt judged for not using a tea cup saucer even alone.

Bedelia was the wealthiest woman on this side of the country. Her wealth came from widowhood, and she dressed in black at all times despite her husband dying near a decade ago.

“You didn’t come to the ball last night,” Hannibal said. Bedelia slowly turned her head and gave him an icy stare.

Everything about Bedelia was slow. She talked slow, stretching out words with all the grace of fingers tracing silk. She moved slow, each movement as leisurely as a cat stretching in the sun. However, her thoughts were sharp and fast--sometimes as fast as Hannibal's.

“You know I’ve retired from high society,” she stated, motioning to her black mourning clothes with a wide lazy arc of her hand. “I’ve no children to marry off and no desire for a husband. The only reason I am here having tea with you today is because you promised to do my portrait.”

Shortly after her late husband had passed, men had swarmed Belinda, aiming for her fortune. At first, she had quite enjoyed the attention. However, a particularly near violent attempt against her made her retreat from social mingling. It ended in the man’s death but nevertheless, she kept to herself.

“Are you distracted because of that Freddie Lounds business?” Bedelia asked.

“News has spread that fast?” Hannibal’s eyes wandered back to the window.

“Yes, currently the tale is that she was nearly mauled by a ferocious beast of a dog when you stepped in heroically to chastise an impudent, uncouth servant and save her.”

She had wanted Mr. Graham gone. Hannibal had placated Freddie with the promise that the dog would be put down. Abigail would never let him hear the end of it if he threw the man out.

“I did not find him that...uncouth.” Belinda’s eyes narrowed and she turned to look at where Hannibal was staring.

Quite a distance away, Mr. Graham was wandering across the estate with a pile of fresh chopped wood on his back and a pack of dogs trailing after him. The slim figure of Beverly raced across the estate to him, waving her hands and presumably yelling. They spoke briefly, then Mr. Graham turned to his dogs and sent them racing off.

“Hannibal,” Bedelia said, with a tone that was both the rose and the thorns. “A groundskeeper?” Hannibal did not meet her accusing gaze.

“Recently, I have been thinking that I should enjoy the company of a friend who's lifestyle is different from my own," he said.

“A friend...” Bedelia said slowly. There were times, Bedelia had noted, when Hannibal could be strangely...innocent. He talked of this groundskeeper like a child caught hiding a stray. "Oh the poor man."

The figure that was William Graham was rapidly approaching the mansion.

“Come now, it is time for your portrait,” Hannibal said.

Will had been summoned by the Duke.

Thus far, he had lived a quiet life on the Duke’s estate. As groundskeeper, he had a humble little lodge at the edge of the estate boundary—where the lawn met the forest. He quite liked the other staff as well. Beverly, Brian Zeller, and Jimmy Price were good company, although he frequently found them too noisy. In a surprising turn of events, the Duke’s young ward Abigail had become a pleasant conversational companion. This was largely due to his dear friend Alana, who had secured him his position, introducing them.

But now, he lamented internally, he was at the mercy of the Duke. Will could lose his job. It would be hard to adjust, but he could do it. However, he’d never abide by the murder of Ellie.

“Did he say anything about Ellie?”

“Who?” Beverly asked.

“Ellie, my dog.” Beverly rolled her eyes. She was walking rapidly alongside him, a fistful of skirt hem in each hand as they skimmed across the lawn.

“Is that all you think about?” she questioned. It was mostly light-hearted but there was a slight edge to her voice. “You’re on the verge of losing your job and all you can think about is a dog?”

“She barely even barked at the woman.”

“God Will, you don’t even know who that woman is do you?”

“Another of the Duke’s high-class squeezes or something?” Will gripped. “Or let me guess, her father’s uncle’s nephew is heir to the throne of some foreign country and that makes her distantly _almost_ royalty," he said with disdain.

“Listen, as much as I love commiserating over high-class pissing contests--”

“Pissing and dick waggling,” Will added.

“Yes, pissing and dick waggling—urine galore!” Beverly agreed. “Regardless, that was Freddie Lounds you called a mutt last night. She runs a gossip column and has ruined the reputation of many a noble and lady.”

They pushed open a side door to the kitchen and Price and Zeller were there to meet them.

“God lord, did you take a dip in the lake?” Price asked. “Clean yourself off a bit.”

Will looked down at himself. He had been chopping wood all day for the kitchens and sweated his way through his shirt.

“Here I will trade you,” Zeller said, handing him a cloth in exchange for Will’s bundle of wood. Zeller fumbled with the wood, nearly buckling under his weight, until Price stepped in to help. Together the two of them toted the wood off while Will took a minute to wipe himself down with a rag. Beverly was staring.

“I'm not a piece of meat Beverly,” Will said tersely.

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m just admiring the fine quality of your uh...tunic.”

“His tunic is shit,” a voice interrupted. Alana, dressed in a modest but well-kept grey dress, came towards them. Will greeted his old friend with a smile and she returned it warmly, before a shadow of concern crossed over her face. “Rinse up a bit in the sink, the Duke hates unclean things.”

Will followed the command, splashing some water onto his face and through his hair to try and tame the curls.

“Perhaps you can explain to me why would the Duke cares about this Lounds character?” Will asked. “He’s so above everyone else in class he’s practically untouchable.”

Alana handed Beverly a comb. The servant brushed Will’s hair as he scrubbed the dirt from his hands; meanwhile, Alana snapped a lightweight tan jacket in the air a few times. Once Will was done, he pulled it over his sweaty shirt and adjusted the collar and sleeves.

[Tan jacket will]

Alana sighed as she fiddled with little bits of Will to try and make him more presentable.

“I suspect it’s Abigail ,” Alana answered heavily. “They’d call Abigail a harlot by association if any of the Duke’s scandals were confirmed.”

“So, they are true?” Beverly asked.

“Of course not,” Alana answered. “he’s a perfect gentleman. I’ve known the Duke for a while; he was a patron at my learning institution. There were rumors then too—people said that he was preying on the girls. But he did no such thing. Now come on, we can’t keep him waiting.”

“He’s going to kill Ellie,” Will said as they walked. Alana tried to blink away her confusion.

“Who’s Ellie?”

“My dog!” Will exclaimed. Alana met Beverly’s knowing gaze, and the servant shrugged.

“Your job and livelihood are on the line here,” Alana explained. Will rolled his shoulders back; he hated wearing jackets in summer. He didn’t care if it was the gentlemanly style. Sure, they said linen was breathable and lightweight but even more breathable and lightweight was no jacket at all.

“What am I all dolled up for?” Alana turned her gaze to the floor and muttered something indistinct.

“likes..thing...”

“What?” Will asked.

“He...likes attractive things,” Alana burst, a blush creeping up her neck. “Look I’m sorry, but it might help you to look...presentable.” Beverly raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe there is another reason he never preyed upon the girls other than chivalry,” she teased, a shit eating grin plastered across her face as she winked at Will.

They stopped outside the door to the Duke’s sitting room.

“He’s in there with Lady Belinda,” Alana explained. “Try to not piss her off either.”

“I have nothing but the utmost respect for the gentry,” Will deadpanned. He'd gladly sacrifice a finger if it meant he never had to tolerate another second with a Lord or Lady.

“Damn it Will there is no time for this, just...” Alana took a breath. “Just smile, okay. Smile and talk as little as possible.”

“Understood,” Will brushed away.

“I will announce him,” Beverly said. She slipped into the room. As soon as Beverly exited from the hall, and it was just the two of them, Alana’s face darkened with guilt.

“Will...” she said, her face heavy with withheld emotions. Tears dotted her eyes and she took a breath.

Will felt a flash of panic as he tried to think of what to say to comfort her. Then, she grabbed him, pulling him into a hug, and buried her face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “And thank you.” He patted her gently on her back.

“We have to stick together don’t we,” Will said. Alana nodded into his shoulder then pulled back; she straighten herself out and just like that, the tears and emotions were buried and hidden. Beverly stepped out of the room; a devilish grin was on her face.

“Have fun,” she said in a sing-song voice. She slapped Will on the bum and pushed him to the door.

Will slipped into the room.

His whole body momentarily froze as he processes the scene before him. The sitting room was exactly what you’d expect from a Duke’s mansion. It was one of many sitting rooms; however, this one had the best light and frequently was used as a painting studio. Large windows dominated one side of walls, and paintings covered the other. Couches, chairs, and tables littered the room with tasteful placement.

A smooth, _slow_ , and silky voice greeted him. It was the voice of a woman.

“Ah, you must be the groundskeeper.”

The voice had come from a woman, nothing too shocking there. However, the woman in question was naked and lounging on a couch. Her only coverage came from a few peaches and a well-placed bundle of grapes.

“Please don’t be shy,” Bedelia said. Her voice was syrup. “The duke was just in the middle of doing my portrait.” She rose from the couch and Will averted his gaze to the windows.

“Excuse m-my intrusion,” Will managed. He could feel every muscle in his body stiffen like marble. Damn Beverly for not warning him. “I can return at another time.”

“Nonsense,” Bedelia waved away. “I believe it is time for me to make my exist anyhow.” She slipped a robe onto her body and sauntered over to the Duke. It was like watching a snake glide.

Hannibal had risen to his feet when Will entered. His face had jerked to attention.

[Hannibal's _oh shit, Will's here_ face]

Bedelia had noted the attentive gesture even if Will had been too distracted. The Duke sat back down in front of his canvas, re-adjusting his jacket as he did so. Bedelia approached and then leaned down to his ear.

“That was a naughty jest to play on him,” she whispered to Hannibal. “Play nice with your new...friend.”

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitched in a smile, but otherwise he betrayed no other emotions.

“Of course,” he answered. “The second master bedroom is still open for you to change.”

“Through the second door, up the staircase, I know my way.” Bedelia flashed Will a knowing smile and then slithered out of the room.

A tense silence filled the room. Will stood frozen and unsure, while Hannibal meticulously cleaned the paintbrushes he had been using. He seemed to not even register Will’s presence, not so much as glancing at him. Finally, unable to stand around like some ornamental statue any longer, Will cleared his throat.

“I was informed that you wanted to see me immediately your grace,” he stated. “I had no idea...that you were in the middle of,” Will cleared his dry throat, “painting.” Hannibal took a moment to examine the canvas he had been working on, before swapping it out with a fresh one.

Hannibal was dressed very simply. He had on a white shirt underneath a dark maroon vest. His jacket was folded on the back of his chair. The sunlight from the window’s cast him in a very favorable light—highlighting the silver in his hair and sharpness of his jawline.

“Mr. Graham, please, take a seat,” he offered, gesturing at the couch that Bedelia had just been lounging on. Will looked at it suspiciously. Hannibal spread his hands in innocent pragmatism. “It has the best lighting.”

Will took a breath and crossed the room to the seat. He sat, tense and uncomfortable. The two men spoke at the same time.

“So, the weather--” Hannibal started.

“About my dog your grace,” Will began.

“It’s been very hot--” Hannibal overlapped.

“She didn’t mean anything by...”

Silence cut into their conversation, as they both processed what had been clumsily stated over top one another.

“Yes, the weather had been very hot,” Will muttered in nervous agreement, unable to look the other man in the eyes. _Christ, what had he gotten himself into?_

“Ellie, right?” Hannibal inquired. Will was taken aback, but managed to nod. “I spoke to Abigail about it,” Hannibal explained. He sat down upon his painting stool. “You’ve been a good companion to her.”

Will couldn’t tell if Hannibal was expressing disapproval or not.

“We converse occasionally,” Will said. “Under the supervision of Alana."

“I’ve no issue with you talking to my ward,” Hannibal said. “It’s...good for her to mingle outside the confines of money-hungry suitors and bubbly young ladies.” He stared intently at Will for a moment, then picked up a brush.

It was the first time Hannibal had gotten to see his groundskeeper in the proper light. The dark shadows of night have their own charm, but daylight drew out the subtle greens in the other man's pale grey eyes. There had been an attempt to smooth down the hair, with water it seemed like, but the soft curls were resistant to liquid gravity and stubbornly fell in gentle waves.

However, no matter how much the sunlight softened the features of the man before him, there was a hardness below that cut through. A tense hatred mixed with stiff social paralysis and irritation.

Will momentarily squirmed with discomfort and tucked at his wrist collar, his eyes flickering over the room to try and find an appropriate place to look away.

“I can...apologize to Lady Lounds,” Will offered, doing his best to keep the spite out of his voice.

“For calling her a mutt?” Hannibal asked with a small smile.

He was now dutifully painting, and Will felt a shiver of self-consciousness.

“I should hope not; the truth should not be punished. However, a gesture must be made." He paused to examine Will again, then continued. "She wanted your job you know. Settling to just put Ellie down was quite a compromise to negotiate.”

Will’s fists balled with anger. How could he be so childish to think the Duke would be any different just because he learned a name?

“If my resignation is what it will take then I’ll gladly do so.” Most of the joy he'd derive from gladly leaving would be from knowing he was exiting from the path of a egotistical duke. 

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his legs in a moment of complete ease. He studied Will critically.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he stated. “For an animal.” Will glared back tensely into Hannibal’s maroon eyes.

 _The superiority complex of man_ , he thought to himself. To think oneself master over all beasts and to view sympathy for them as sniveling weakness. How distasteful.

“Yes,” he managed to grind out. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Will sat stiff and uncomfortable, like a cat backed into a corner and hissing on it's haunches. On the other hand, Hannibal was as relaxed and as serene as a winter lake.

“You know...” Hannibal began. He paused, considering the impact of his words. “This is the first time you’ve looked me in the eyes.”

Will swallowed, a bead of anxiety running down his back, and he looked down. His anger had gotten the better of him momentarily, but now he remembered where he was and who he was talking to. Alana’s words rang in his mind:

_“He...likes attractive things.”_

Will never had much context for his level of attractiveness. It wasn’t something he thought about. Occasionally, he caught Beverly drooling over him like a dog staring at a plate of ribs, but she chased any man’s bone. Working in the fields and woods had made his hands rough and calloused; his skin was sun kissed at best and sun damaged if honest. He’d never bothered trying to tame his hair, which was unruly and wild. More often than not, he was caked in a layer of sweat and dirt that required a good bath—which he had no access too. On hot summer nights, he’d cool off by taking a bath in the lake but otherwise he made do with a rag and water bucket.

“Are you nervous Mr. Graham?” Hannibal asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“No,” Will lied, shifting in his seat. “If it seems that way it’s only on behalf of my dog.”

"I'd like for us to converse as equals if that is alright with you, Mr. Graham," Hannibal said. "Although the circumstances of our meeting is unfortunate, I feel a friendship can grow from misfortune."

Will said nothing. He didn't know what to say. He didn't trust Hannibal's words. If any friendship was to grow between them, it would still be in the context of Hannibal as the duke and Will as his employee. At best, Will thought to himself, Hannibal would likely keep him as some sort of quaint pet.

“I believe...” Hannibal pondered slowly. “That I can find a compromise that might ease the tension between us.”

“What do you suggest my grace?” Will asked.

“Your facial structure is very compelling,” Hannibal stated, stopping to examine his canvas. “I should like to take your portrait. In exchange, I’ll re-visit Freddie Lounds.”

Will was suspicious. His face burrowed with bewilderment.

“My portrait?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. If this was a euphemism, it was one he didn’t know.

“Yes, I should like to take some sketches first.” Will glanced at the grapes and peaches that Bedelia had been using to cover herself.

“Will...fruit be involved?” he hazarded. Nudity was a line he was uninterested in crossing.

This question seemed to amuse Hannibal greatly. A thin little smile flashed across his face and he glanced down. The smile in combination with the streaming sunlight, had a warming effect that brightened the Duke’s face. Will was momentarily mesmerized, he swallowed thickly.

“No, the fruit is optional.” Hannibal looked back up at Will, who quickly turned his head up to admire...well nothing. He wasn’t good at pretending that he had not been staring.

“Will I...should I...” Will said flustered. He fiddled nervously with a button on his jacket and wished desperately he possessed the social adaption to navigate this new field. “Will these portrait sessions be scheduled for the future or do you intend to continue with your painting of me?”

“Painting of you?” Hannibal inquired.

“Well yes,” Will muttered, pointing at the canvas Hannibal had been working on. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing...uh...painting me?” Hannibal stood from his chair and plucked the canvas from the easels, a standard motion that shouldn’t have been as graceful and balletic as he made it to be. He eyed it for a moment, before flipping it around for Will to see.

It was the peaches and grapes. Not Will.

“Ah,” Will said, now quite flush and embarrassed by his assumption. “Right. I just assumed because you asked me to sit where your lover was posing--”

“Oh, excuse the interruption,” Hannibal cut in. “But I must correct that Bedelia is not my lover, just a very close friend.”

“Are you in the habit of taking your friend’s portraits in the nude?” Will found himself asking. The question rolled out before he could stop it.

Hannibal considered the question a moment, seeming to roll it around in his mind. Then he eyes fell back on Will.

“Certain friends," he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I try to spell Bedelia's name I spell it a different way. Belinda? Bedelna? Bedeail? Beetle? She is Beetle now.


	3. Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised. Sessy wood chopping time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I had some issues with updating this chapters so I had to re-upload it.

[wood]

“Will!” Abigail called from her horse. Will looked up from chopping wood to see the young lady riding towards him. She was wearing men’s clothing. Riding britches and a loose top with suspenders. It looked natural on her.

She brought her horse beside him, the dogs going mad with excitement from seeing her.

“Hello guys!” Abigail cooed as she dismounted. “Oh!” she exclaimed, stretching out her arms. “This shade feels great on such a hot day!” It was a bright day but under the protection of the trees, it was cool and dark.

Will looked around for Alana. He was dressed lightly to combat the heat: a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and brown pants with brown suspenders.

“Don’t you know it’s improper to be alone with a man unsupervised?” Abigail rolled her eyes.

“Oh, the impropriety,” she mocked, as she pulled the bit out of her horse’s mouth so it could feed on the grass. “My reputation is worth risking damnation to know the latest gossip. Tell me, how did it go with my dad?” Abigail asked, crossing her arms as she watched Will stack a wood block for chopping.

“Fine,” Will answered, bringing his axe down with a loud _thunk!_ "He agreed to spare Ellie's life." Will omitted what the agreed exchange was.

Abigail bent down to pet Winston. The dogs were playing with each other in the clearing beside Will’s hut. Behind them were the estate woods, and in front of them was the vast estate lawn and gardens. Will’s hut blended in perfectly with the background; you'd have to know it was there to spot it from a distance.

“I think he’d have done it,” Abigail said, her eyes on Ellie. “He’d have killed her.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Will agreed, he lined up another piece of wood. “Few people have sympathy for an animal.”

_Thunk!_

“No, it’s not that,” she said, idly. “He doesn't let anything get in his way." A shadow crossed over her face. "Sometimes I wonder if there is anything capable of stopping him.”

“Yes, he seems the type,” Will stated, feeling a similar shadow crossed his as he remembered how the Duke had cornered him into modeling.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Abigail asked softly, her voice on the verge of trembling. Will stopped chopping wood. His face was concerned but cautious.

He nodded, unsure but wanting to be supportive. He didn’t like getting involved in the affairs of others, especially not of those who held power over him. Regardless, he was fond of Abigail who was brash but sweet and always seemed to be battling a private demon.

“You’re the only one I feel like I can talk to without fearing that it will get back to him,” she said. Will was silent; he didn’t know how to handle Abigail’s vulnerability. The quiet that filled the space between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was thoughtful.

“Alana is great,” Abigail said, trying to make her voice steady. “Really, she is, but she owes a debt to the Duke. He was her mentor.” Abigail knelt down to push her face against Winston’s forehead, and the worried dog licked the tears forming on her face.

“Do...you have something you wish to say without the Duke knowing?” Will asked tentatively. Abigail shrugged and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I am grateful he took me in as his ward,” Abigail said. “He has no family, you know? Neither do I. We were a perfect match,” she chuckled sadly, wiping at her face. “I do think of him as a father and he believes me a daughter in turn, but...” She stared off into the distance, her eyes pensive.

Will sat down the stump he had been using as a chopping block, becoming level with Abigail.

“We can feel both gratitude and dissatisfaction,” he said quietly. “The two emotions are not exclusive.”

Abigail turned to him; her eyes slightly fearful. Her bottom lip wobbled.

“I...” she began cautiously. “I don’t want to marry.”

Will sighed. The world of bloodlines and heritage were foreign to him. Legacy was important he knew. Family names had to be continued and titles carried down. And, in the eyes of society, there was no greater duty for a woman than to marry and provide an heir. As the Duke had no blood children himself, the adoption of Abigail as his ward meant she carried that burden.

“Hmm...” Will considered. “You know, neither do I." 

Abigail's shiny, wet eyes looked up, a slight smile of relief thankfully on her face. Will met her smile with his own, a comfortable breeze warmed the air between them. The young woman pushed her hair back and took a deep breath.

"Though, for a, uh, slightly different reason," he added. Abigail laughed. It was airy and light, as the laugh of a young woman free to be herself should be.

“God, what a pitiful pair we are. Two future spinsters.”

“Women are spinsters,” Will corrected. He put a hand on his chest theatrically and bowed to Abigail. “Men are... _bachelors_.” Abigail chuckled dryly.

“You’re a spinster if ever I saw one,” she teased, getting to her feet.

“What would you do then?” Will asked, also rising. "With all your freedom." He put another block of wood down for chopping. _Thunk!_

“Maybe I’ll study music in Paris,” Abigail said wistfully, she looked ten pounds lighter and brighter in the face. “Or! Take up writing like the Bronte sisters. I’m well read and have excellent prose.”

“Two marvelous ventures,” Will agreed. A sweat was forming on his brow.

“You better not let the Duke know of the reason behind your unwillingness to marry,” Abigail advised.

“I can handle the Duke.” He reached down for a rag to wipe his face when he heard Abigail say,

“Oh, damn it all.” He looked up and saw a rider approaching. Abigail hurriedly rushed to get the bit back on her horse. But the animal had wandered off. She ran to bring it back and while she did so the rider got closer and closer. It was Hannibal. Of course, it was Hannibal.

“Good morning, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal greeted. His face was a blank void. Abigail stood stiff beside Will, the horse reigns in her hand. “And my dear Abigail."

“I believe it’s afternoon, your grace,” Will said, unflinching. He would not stand for intimidation, not when he knew Abigail needed support.

Hannibal dismounted from his horse, his powerful legs stomping down onto the ground. He slowly picked off his riding gloves, one by one pulling at the fingers. The riding suit he was wearing was dark blue. Maroon eyes surveyed the scene with slow interest: Will and Abigail alone, no Alana Bloom to chaperone, and not a soul around to interrupt or manage whatever intimate conversation they had been sharing.

“Did you not just tell me the other day,” Hannibal began, one glove off. “That you only talked to my ward while supervised?”

The good-natured lightness that Hannibal had presented to Will in the sitting room was gone. Before him was _The Duke_ talking to a servant, not a man talking a friend. He turned from one side to the other, sweeping his gaze over the landscape.

“Or have you hidden poor Alana Bloom?”

Will nodded to the dogs.

“Winston has been keeping an eye on us.” Winston scratched his ear helpfully. Abigail, who had turned white as a sheet beside Will, now had to bite down on her lip to try and stifle a laugh. She cleared her throat, finding her courage.

“I came on my own accord,” Abigail informed her adoptive guardian. “Mr. Graham and I were just talking.”

“How charming,” Hannibal said, his predatory eyes flickered between the two of them. “And what might a groundskeeper and the ward of a duke converse of?” Abigail faltered, but Will did not.

“The fate of Ellie,” he supplied. It was the truth, just not the whole truth. “The lady Abigail was concerned, and in her boundless empathy," Will paused to nod at Abigail, "she sought my humble lodging to check on her well being." He locked eyes with Hannibal.

[Will's f-ing try me face] source: [Embrace the ravenstag](https://hannigram.tumblr.com/post/80054739351/cutiepie)

“How fastidious,” Hannibal said, his face utterly unreadable. “Abigail,” he addressed. She straightened to attention. “Please take your leave first. I believe lunch is about to be served.”

The girl flashed Will an apologetic look. He nodded at her, silently assuring her that he would be fine, and she mounted onto her horse. When she had rode out of sight, Will picked up his rag again and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Hannibal was taking in Will’s modest lodgings, tucking away in the back of the estate. It smelled of wood, earth, and must--the same bouquet that lingered on Will's skin. A cluttered but neat air surrounded it--along with stacks of wood and various loose tools for woodcutting and gardening. In terms of capacity the small hut was perhaps large enough for a couple; however, Hannibal imagined it was dreadfully cramp with all the dogs inside.

Will picked up a log and placed it to be chopped. Muscles tensed under his thin, soaked shirt as the axe was raised.

_Thunk!_

He knew the Duke was staring. He could feel it like a feather tickling the back of his neck. A roaming gaze that ticked over every aspect of his body--taking in how his hair clung to the sweat on the base of neck, how his shoulder blades moved while he worked, and the way he planted his feet firmly upon the ground.

“So, the weather...” Will prompted, calling back to their last conversation. Will wasn’t sure how the other man would react to the jest, but was pleasantly surprised and relived to notice the corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitch up.

“I see you do not care for the tedium of conversational etiquette.” Will considered the words before he brought his axe down upon the log.

_Thunk!_

“I find it droll,” Will stated. “On the occasions I’ve had to overhear the conversations between those my class superior, I’ve always thought it amusing to hear the empty conversations about the weather. It’s like watching peacocks preen with their words.”

“Is that an explanation as to why you see fit to converse with my ward unattended.” Will ran a hand through his hair, staring up at the tree tops momentarily. Dappled sunlight streamed down from between the leaves and played across his face.

“If you are worried about your ward’s propriety, have no fear,” Will informed him. “I respect the station of Abigail and do obey the etiquette in place to protect her. However, this case was, as she says, a conversation that she instigated not I.”

“Are you a gentleman?” Hannibal asked, approaching Will slowly.

_Thunk!_

“Even better,” Will said, lining up another log. “I am a gentle man.”

The Duke laughed softly, and quirked his gaze away, mentally walking through a thought. Then he turned back to Will and said,

“I confess you puzzle me, Mr. Graham.”

Hannibal was circling at a leisurely pace with his hands clasped behind his back, each foot landing in front of the other with clock work planned precision.

“A difficult feat I am sure,” Will said graciously. Another log was aligned.

“It appears you’ve infiltrated my household,” Hannibal stated. “My ward seeks you out for private chats. You’ve earned the respect of the governess. I’ve only just heard your name in the past few days, and yet you’ve come to rest at the forefront of my thoughts. Why is that Mr. Graham?”

_Thunk!_

Will braced his foot against the chopping stump and leaned forward as he wrenched the axe out; he had used too much force on the last swing. The muscles tensed under his thin shirt and he grunted with effort as the axe was dislodged in a small puff of splinters. Again, he felt the tickle on the back of his neck and knew the other man was staring.

“I’d attribute my presence in your thoughts to be boredom rather than any genius of mine.” He tossed the axe aside and took a deep inhale of air that caused his chest to heave. Then he began to pick up the split wood to stack it beside his house.

“May I assist you in your chopping?” Hannibal inquired. Will paused in his stacking to look Hannibal over. Certainly, he was not a man who had overindulged in gluttony, but he could hardly imagine him ever having to chop wood. His suit likely cost more than everything Will owned.

“Have you chopped wood before?”

“I have...used an axe before,” Hannibal said with a slight smile that didn’t sit right with Will. The Duke set up a log and then picked up the axe. He admired it for a moment, and then, gripping it with both hands, he swung in cleanly through the air and into the log. Two perfect split pieces of wood fell off the chopping block. Where Will was all power when he chopped, Hannibal was all precision.

Hannibal turned to Will, seeking approval for his accomplishment. Will tucked the piece of wood he had picked up under his arm and brought his hands together in a slow clap.

“Your grace,” he said. “We shall make a commoner out of you yet.” Hannibal nodded his thanks with a little bow.

Will stopped in his work to refresh himself with a drink. He had a barrel of fresh water he kept by his hut. Dipping into it with a tin mug, he drank deeply, water running down his cheek. He sighed when this thirst was quenched and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he dipped in the cup again and splashed the water onto his head to cool off. The water dripped from his hair onto his shirt; it mingled with his perspiration and caused the cloth to stick to his skin.

Then he leaned against his hut with his head tossed back, enjoying the cool shade of the trees.

“A drink, your grace?” Will asked.

“My...” Hannibal murmured. “My thirst is not so great at this moment.”

_Liar._

“Suit yourself,” Will said. “But take care not to overexert yourself.” Hannibal seemed to agree, and thusly paused to unbutton his riding jacket—meticulously undoing each button with clockwork precision. The jacket was removed and folded neatly. Will couldn’t help but smirk.

“Something amusing?”

“No,” Will shook off. “Well, yes.” He scooped out another drink of water and took another long gulp. “I am merely in awe of your dedication to fastidiousness. Even in the bounds of the wilderness, you are as tidy as a library.”

_Thunk!_

“Do you read much Mr. Graham?” Hannibal inquired, kicking the split logs off the chopping block and they clattered aside.

“Does it surprise you that I am literate?” Will asked as he leaned against the hut. A deliciously cool breeze picked up and rustled the leaves above them.

“I'd never dream of such an assumption; you speak with the cadence of the well-educated.”

“I’m disappointed,” Will confessed. “I'd have liked to have surprised you. Men of my means so often can't even spell their names. But I was fortunate to have received some schooling with allowed me to tutor myself as best I could.”

“What motivated you?” Hannibal asked, lining up another log. Will's eyes became distant, lost in a memory. Hannibal allowed himself a moment to take in the thoughtful man, and then swung the axe down.

_Thunk!_

“I wanted to read the Bible.” This did surprise Hannibal, and it showed plainly on his face.

“I did not take you for a pious man.” Will chuckled, but his laughter had a dark hollowness to it.

“I wanted to be. As a young boy, I sought to find if the fire and brimstone the local pastor preached was true. I became his dedicated student in order to learn scripture.”

Will flexed his hand, steadily opening and closing it in a fist, as memories returned. Hannibal’s eyes roamed down to the fist, then back up at the groundskeeper’s impassive expression.

“Did you find what you sought?” Hannibal inquired, his head tilting slightly with interest.

“The pastor certainly did,” Will muttered darkly, taking another drink. He sighed when he finished the cup and tossed the mug back onto the ground—ready to move on from the conversation. “And indeed, I learned that damnation awaited me and so I turned my cheek to other endeavors.”

Will returned to stacking logs, picking up the pieces that Hannibal had chopped. He was avoiding looking at Hannibal. The other man’s face had scarcely changed at Will’s re-telling; he had only blinked.

“Why should you be damned?” Hannibal asked, conversationally.

“That is a very personal question, your grace,” Will challenged. “Asking a man to confess his sins is a priest's job. Have you a white collar?”

“Alas, I too am a damned man I fear.” The axe was swung in the air.

_Thunk!_

“Then to hell with both of us,” Will toasted with a piece of wood. “Surely Hell cannot be hotter than the weather as of late.”

[source:[Şüra (pintrest)]](https://www.pinterest.com/nitroseluloz)

“Indeed,” Hannibal concurred. He was starting to work up a sweat. He set the axe down against the log and clicked his tongue for his horse. The animal dutifully sauntered over. “It is time for me to take my leave,” he announced. “But I thank you for the exercise and conversation.”

“Before you leave,” Will said as Hannibal mounted his steed. “I will leave you with one hint as to my damnation.” Hannibal waited patiently upon his mount for Will’s confession. He was intrigued, Will could tell, although he hid it well. Will stepped closer, placing a hand on the strong muscles of Hannibal's steed. “I bit the priest.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” Will said, he turned his head a little to the side. “And you know where.”

Hannibal’s hands tightened on the reins; the heat of the day seemed to increase.

Will smirked.

[Will's "Two can play at this game" face]

“Good day your grace, I await your call for a portrait.”

“Good day, Mr. Graham.” And with that Hannibal rode off with much to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody shares my wood chopping aesthetic :(
> 
> Am I the only one that think more fics need scenes of ships chopping wood whilst exchanging quips and admiring each other?


	4. A Painted Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this instead of a personal statement due earlier this week :)  
> Pls comment to validate my procrastination

Price, Zeller, and Beverly stood dutifully behind Hannibal.

Generally speaking, Beverly liked her job. There were worse places to be employed than the household of a Duke. The work was a bit harder with a larger estate, but you got to steal lots of good food from the kitchen, and hey, Price and Zeller were solid mates to work with.

However, today was not one of the days that she felt appreciative for employment. Now was one of the days she daydreamed of guillotines.

Four hours.

That was how long the Duke spent organizing the sitting room. Hannibal had directed them in an artful ballet of decoration. Tea tables were re-adjusted to the centimeter; couches from régence to magis proust styled were brought in, viewed, and then exchanged for a different style. Flowers were fresh cut from the garden, each one selected and snipped at the stem with meticulous selection. Fruits of pears, pomegranates, grapes, and peaches were strewed across the furniture like jewels inlaid into a necklace. It was a perfect symphony of tasteful craftsmanship; not a flower petal was out of place.

The result was Rococo personified. Flowers, fruits, and bolts of running cloth were draped and laid around an ornate couch with gold trim and a floral print. Lavish was an understatement.

And Beverly had dragged ever god damn piece of furniture in the mansion up and down stairs from every corner of the house. She had wrestled heavy drapes regally over couches, climbed up ladders to adjust the curtains, run out to the gardens to get fresh cut flowers, and most importantly, had not eaten all morning. It was late afternoon now.

Hannibal stepped back to examine the scene he had constructed. He picked up a Lily, eyeing it critically for imperfections.

Beverly felt her feet ache at the very thought of having to run back out to the garden to fetch a replacement if he disapproved. Her feet were so sore they had their own beating pulse.

The professional façade she maintained for work was starting to slip as hunger and exhaustion overtook her like a blanket of pain.

“I think it looks lovely, your grace,” she deadpanned.

[Beverly's "I'm so f-king hungry let me eat lunch" face]

Internally, she thought: Will is going to shit a brick when he sees it. However, she’d have praised the scene if it was a vomit-stained barstool surrounded by spittoons and bottles of piss.

Hannibal crossed his arms as he thought; his eyes were far off, lost in a private theater of potential interactions and poses. Meanwhile, Beverly wondered how bad she was going to smell when she peeled off her petticoat and released all the sweat she had accumulated.

“The gold trim of the couch may clash with his eyes,” Zeller observed casually. Price elbowed Zeller in the ribs, shooting him eye daggers of disapproval and mouthed.

_‘What the hell!?’_

“On the o-other hand, it does compliment his skin tone!” Zeller added hastily.

“You are not wrong, Mr. Zeller,” Hannibal agreed, an amiable man to even his servants. “However, I find a bit of contrast to be visually cleansing.”

“Very astute your grace,” Beverly agreed, glancing at the sitting room clock.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly as he gazed upon his creation. Will would look beautiful of course; a lovely weed planted in the garden of his making, but was it the right setting? Was this the garden to tempt his Eve?

“The softer pallet evokes Botticelli; however, Caravaggio’s would be more fitting for Mr. Graham.”

 _No. God no_. No way in all nine levels of Dante’s hell was she going to re-adjust the curtains, switch out the furniture, and re-organize everything for a _bloody_ Caravaggio vibe!

“Perhaps next time,” Beverly suggested hastily.

“Next time?” Hannibal asked, turning to face her. For a fraction of a second, a small, amused smile twitched across his face. “Indeed, there is great potential for a next time. Call for Bedelia, I feel the mood to entertain tomorrow tonight.”

 _Shit_ , Beverly thought to herself, _Will is going to KILL me._

Beverly had been right—Will did hate the portrait scene.

Hannibal had prepared a luxurious backdrop for him to pose upon. The kind of display which typically centered around a woman draped elegantly across a couch, head slightly raised, with a thin shroud covering her naughty bits just right.

Will and Hannibal stood side by side staring at it.

A long beat of silence passed as Will processed it all—the gold, the flowers, the fruit. The seconds of the clock ticked as loud as chruch bells in the quiet sitting room.

_Tick...Tick...Tick..._

“It is quite...” Will began. Hannibal turned slightly towards Will, quietly anticipating Will’s judgement of his efforts.

[Hannibal's "Please praise me" face]

But Will was at a loss. He wasn’t sure his vocabulary was sufficient to describe his thoughts on the scene before him.

_Tick...Tick...Tick..._

“Antoinette,” he finally managed. Hannibal pursed his lips ever so slightly, and then nodded.

["F-ck he hates it" face]

He should have gone with Caravaggio.

“Please,” Hannibal said, gesturing for Will to sit.

Will sat disdainfully for the portrait, reluctantly taking his seat as if it was chair made of nails. Then he lazily flicked at a decorative pomegranate and watched the ruby fruit roll off the couch pitifully before it fell off and landed with a “piff!” onto the carpet.

“I recall you saying there would be no fruit,” Will said. He raised an eyebrow up at Hannibal. “Or have I become that type of friend?” he postured.

“I’ve yet to categorize our friendship,” Hannibal answered breezily, taking his seat behind the easel. He removed his jacket, shrugging out of the material with the grace of a dancer and swinging it around his chair in one swift arc.

“Yes, friendship,” Will said begrudgingly. He was inexplicably irritated by Hannibal’s elegance. Yet he couldn’t help but stare as he watched Hannibal fold back the cuffs of his sleeves, the skin of the man’s wrist peeking out to be kissed by sunlight. It was the only time Will had seen Hannibal’s exposed skin.

He shifted slightly in his seat and cleared his throat; a sudden tightness attacking his pants.

“I do think of you as a friend Mr. Graham,” Hannibal said, pulling Will back to the conversation.

Will scoffed, although Hannibal noted he seemed more amused than irritated. The younger man settled back into the couch; he rested his elbow upon the couch armrest and his head upon his fist. Will Graham was the picture of disgruntled relaxation and irritable poise. Hannibal picked up his brush.

“You do not share my viewpoint of our relationship Mr. Graham?” It was a statement poised as a question to invite further discourse.

“Sati _ate_ my curiosity, you grace,” Will requested, biting the 'ate' on the first word like it was made of tin. His stormy eyes were avoiding Hannibal, instead glaring out at the bright sunny day. “and tell me what use have you to fraternizing with a groundskeeper?”

“The pleasure of good company,” Hannibal responded effortlessly. “I am holding a party tomorrow night. I insist you attend.” Will chuckled without mirth and rubbed his mouth.

“Your humor astounds me, my lord duke. Inviting me to one of your soirees? Now, I _almost_ feel as if we are true friends.”

If Hannibal was offended, he did not show it. He was focused wholly on his work, only sparing Will the occasional professional glance. Will was surprised by Hannibal’s level of sterility, and though he’d never admit it, also a little disappointed. However, in lieu of Hannibal's piercing gaze upon him, Will found himself eyeing the higher-esteemed man with greater comfort.

The Duke had a strange...cold softness to him. It was like an early spring dawn, when Will walked out into the fresh dewy grass with frosted breath and watched the pale rising sun that brought no warmth. There was the promise of warmth, the promise of gentility, and yet, Will sensed those promises were as empty as the space between the moon and the earth. Yes, empty. That was a good way to put it; the Duke was an empty man in a big mansion with big rooms and beautiful things and there he sat, across from Will, painting a servant because he had no more things to fill the cavern with.

“Let us deepen our bond of friendship then,” Hannibal suggested. Will subtly jerked back into focus. “Shall I address you as William, or is Will your preference.”

“Mr. Graham is my preference,” Will asserted. He re-positioned in the chair, lifting up his head from his resting fist, and bringing his hands to lay on his abdomen. “But,” he disclosed reluctantly. “Will is how those who are close to me call me.” Hannibal’s head tilted to one side as he painted a long stroke.

“Seeing as how we are alone,” Hannibal said. “Allow me to practice closeness until it is achieved. Tell me...Will...” Involuntarily, Will’s fist opened and closed in irritation, but at the same time, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. His body seemed at odds, battling between finding Hannibal’s behavior entertaining or tedious. “Can two people from different social classes such as ours ever be friends?”

“No,” Will responded curtly. “Your grace,” he added as an afterthought. Hannibal stopped in his painting and faced his model. He looked hurt; it was a fake expression, Will knew, but it was well crafted all the same.

“You won’t do me the courtesy of addressing me by my name?” Will’s face went slack with disinterest and he rolled his shoulders back to stretch them.

“Duke Lector of Gaysex,” Will stated dispassionately, rolling out the title with lazy disdain.

“Hannibal.” Will sniffed and rubbed his mouth again, attempting to hiding a pleased smile, before resigning to display his mirth.

“My dear duke,” Will chuckled. The laugh was guarded and withheld but genuine, and the injection of an affectionate adjective made Hannibal fractionally pause in his painting. His face twitch with secret, imperceptible pleasure. But then Will kept talking. “Lady Lounds would _weep_ to know you’ve abandoned social norms and descended into hedonism to be-friend a lowly servant.”

_Ah yes._

The curtains closed on Hannibal’s face. His eyes deepened with thoughts of the night; the parties he held in this very room; the depravities that unfolded where Will sat as unknowing as a child. The strokes he made became slower.

This was not truly how he wished to paint Will. The clothes which covered Will were undeserving to touch his skin and ought to have been stripped off to use as kindling to illuminate him. Tense and irritable had its charm, Hannibal certainly found it a refreshing change of pace; however, panting with ecstasy would have been Hannibal’s choice.

Tied down perhaps, with black satin, so that the man could not hid his arousal or embarrassment. Preferably tied so that his legs were spread and his dripping cock would be obscenely exposed. Hannibal wasn’t sure if he wanted to gag Will; he commonly gagged his partners—imagining them quite similar to pigs stuffed with apples in their mouths. But Will was special; it would be a shame to gag his lovely mouth. That pretty mouth, so often grimacing and cutting into him with clever retorts, deserved to be worshiped and consumed. He wanted to hear Will’s groans and merge their mouths together as they joined in pleasure. He wanted to taste that clever tongue, suck on it, roll it between his fingers, and stuff his cock down the man’s willing throat.

“I pray she never discovers my forays with hedonism,” Hannibal stated purposefully, never looking away from his work. No trace of his internal fantasy showed. “The tears would drown her.”

The tension between them shifted. Up till now, it had been contentious but courteous—defensive but not aggressive. Now, the “unspoken knowns” lingered in the air between them.

“Comfortable as we are in each other's company,” Hannibal said. His voice had lowered; it took on a metallic texture, sharp and coppery, each word as precise as a scalpel. Gone was the playful tone of Hannibal, this was the Duke. “I hope my intentions of friendship are not misconstrued as mere flights of fancy...Will.”

His eyes flickered back onto Will; cutting maroon eyes that make Will’s fists clench. Will felt his body go stiff and defensive in response.

He had forgotten, no, he had let himself forget that before him was a man of whom the bourgeoisie leapt to lick the boots of. Before him was a man that turned people into playthings. Will felt as if an imaginary collar was being slipped around his throat; Hannibal wanted a pet.

“What...” Will began tensely. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to ask what he was about to ask. “Kind of party is it?” he managed to grind out. He felt like he was chewing on his words, his jaw was so set on edge. His eyes had set into a hard glare without him even noticing.

Hannibal merely blinked.

“A quiet event I suspect. Nothing too--”

“No...no...no,” Will interrupted stiffly. “Lies?” Will asked, letting disappointment drip off the word as he matched Hannibal’s gaze. His own face was tense with simmering rage. “Come now, my dear duke...” Again, the affectionate title elicited a factionary twitch from Hannibal’s face. “Give me sins of omission over outright lies,” Will admonished.

The corner of Hannibal's mouth quirked up a micro-fraction. Will’s throat tightened and he forced himself to breath; the collar felt tighter. The fingernails of his clenched fists dug deeper into his palms.

“Somehow,” Will said, choosing his words very carefully. “I don’t think I’d fit in at your parties. Though perhaps your guest would find me an amusing attraction to gawk at,” he said sourly.

“Hmm...” Hannibal pondered. “I think you’d find the parties I host to be of a different caliber.” A dark amusement flashed in Hannibal’s eyes; it was so quick Will was tempted to believe he conjured it. He barely managed to fight his instinct to flinch but kept his eyes steady and his face set. “I’d wager you’ve be quite popular.” He smiled. “The belle of the ball...as they say.”

Will knew. He knew then that the rumors, in all their ridiculous glory, were true. In the back of his mind, he’d always had a vague belief that they were; however, he thought them exaggerated like when children claim to see a bear when they’ve only seen a coyote.

The truth, now so obvious, filled him with frustration. But it was self-directed frustration. Frustration at himself for overlooking the plainness of the Duke’s intentions, and if he was honest with himself, frustration at himself because some part of Will had wanted it to be true. A small hope had whispered quietly to him: maybe he truly sees you as an equal. Maybe he doesn't view you like a mutt to tame and then discard when his fancy fled. But hope was a cruel mistress, and Hannibal an equally cruel master.

“How long?” Will asked, leaning forward to match Hannibal’s intensity. “Must I sit here and preen for you whilst playing the fool?”

Despite it being a bright, warm day—the atmosphere in the sitting room couldn’t have been more chilled. Hannibal turned his head to the side a little, projecting a total air of curious ignorance.

“You’ve heard rumors?” Hannibal asked—though it was more so a statement than a question. “Vapid whispering into the night.”

“I’ve heard...” Will said slowly, his voice a dark rumble in the back of his throat. “enough.” He folded his hands on his lap and turned his head away from Hannibal to indicate he had no interest in discussion.

Now, Will felt the gaze again. The slow, predatory graze that licked his body from his lips, to neck, to his chest, and all below. Gone was Hannibal’s professional pretense; the man had even stopped painting.

Will had become an ornament in the scene of Hannibal’s making and, not unlike the fruit laid scattered around him, reduced to a consumable commodity. Will was a man built to be pleasured. His strong, or down onto a bed. The soft, brown, curls of his hair called out to be gripped tight while face fucked. His strong legs, well-toned from years of working, begged to be pulled apart to reveal his arousal. He deserved to be thoroughly pleasured till he drowned in a thick fog of lust

Hannibal drunk the sight in, admiring his defiant dog. He sat in open observation, his hands idle and folded in his lap. The two men were mirror images in posture, both straight backed with folded hands; however, Hannibal was all ease to Will’s coiled muscles.

“Have you known hunger?” Hannibal inquired with a professional level of interest. The mask had returned to his face—no emotion showed.

Will weighed the benefits of silence. To not speak would have been rude, and although he held social politeness in little regard, he felt verbal retreat would have been a childish retaliation.

“Better than most,” Will answered from between clenched teeth.

“You are fond of dogs,” Hannibal stated with clinical sterility. “Fond of strays,” he specified. “A man who gives homes to creatures who have none, and shelters them from harm without any thoughts of superiority over them.” A relationship you wished you had with your own family.

Will said nothing, he sat as still as a statue. And that told Hannibal all he needed to know—abandoned. Maybe not to the point of orphan-hood, but ostracized from family connection for certain. A distant mother perhaps, and a father who worked too much.

Hannibal took in a breath. Lilies, dirt, and sweat coalesced in his olfactory senses. He considered the impact of his next statement—the danger it held to thrust into Will’s old wounds—and then went forward with it anyways.

“Tell me, when that priest revealed his true self to you—did your parents believe you?”

At first it seemed that Will hadn’t even heard the question. Then his head began to turn. The beautiful muscles in his neck twisting to bring those storm-colored eyes to meet Hannibal’s.

“I am disappointed, Duke Lector.” The statement was quiet, yet brandished like a blade. Will was so defensive his body language and mannerisms, he might as well have been encased in a suit of armor.

Hannibal felt a foreign cut of displeasure in Will’s deliberate use of his formal title, which distanced them. He blinked, masking the feeling.

“Such lazy, blatant attempts to analysis my psyche,” Will continued. His gaze was steady, but enraged. “I expect that from a lesser man, but you?” Will’s hand opened and closed in a fist at a slow pace. “Well, perhaps the fault is mine for assigning you gallantry when you only have gall.”

Hannibal’s eyes flickered with an unidentifiable emotion. Unidentifiable, because Hannibal himself was unsure of what to call the way Will’s admonishments made him feel. There was a dull ache in his chest, but he recovered.

“Bonds are best fortified through the sharing of battle—the sharing of scars.”

“I owe you no debt but the time it takes to paint me,” Will stated. He lifted the hand he had been opening and closing up to Hannibal’s canvas. “And seeing as how you’ve not touched your brush for an extended duration, I must assume that time is up.”

Will rose, ran the hand through his hair to dispel some of the tension it had been holding, and bowed slightly to Hannibal.

“Good day, your grace.”

“Will,” Hannibal began. But the other man merely turned away, uninterested and already regretting sharing his namesake. “Mr. Graham,” Hannibal re-addressed, adopting a professional tone.

Will stopped, allowing Hannibal a moment of time in exchange for the re-establishment of their social boundaries. He did not turn to face Hannibal, but tilted his ear slightly to one sign to acknowledge he was listening.

“My invitation was sincere, to attend with me tonight.”

He sounded genuine; he had returned to the softer version that was ‘Hannibal’ over the Duke. Will resisted the urge to scoff with derision and instead opted for a heavy sigh. The ease with which Hannibal transitioned from visage to visage was astounding.

“Indeed, I believe it,” Will conceded. “But It's not your invitation I disbelieve, it is your intent.”

Will walked out of the room, pushing open the door like it was cheap bar door rather than the lavish door of Duke’s mansion. His feet were taking steps his mind didn’t even register. He burned with one goal--to exit the domain of Hannibal and get some fresh air to refresh the tightness in his lungs.

He passed Beverly, who tried to shout out a ‘Hey!’, only to become part of the distant background as Will strode past. He didn’t even register the sight of Alana, who was walking up a passing flight of stairs with a stack of papers. Nor did pay any attention to Price or Zeller, who were fighting over who’d use a step ladder to straighten a painting.

Even when he was outside; he did not stop in his quest, and burned across the lawn with heated strides.

Hannibal watched Will go from the sitting room, the window’s granting him a perfect view.

Behind him, the door to the sitting room opened and Price stood awkwardly in the doorway. Then the hand of Beverly shot out and pushed him forward with a curt whisper.

“You lost now go!” Hannibal did not have to turn around to know that the other two-thirds of the servant trio (Beverly and Zeller) were huddled with their ear pressed to the door, listening.

Price stood nervously, fidgeting with his fingers. Words choked in his throat.

“Erm...about...uh...”

“Yes, Mr. Price?” Hannibal encouraged.

“The party tomorrow tonight, shall we cancel?” Price managed to get out.

Hannibal said nothing as he gazed at the diminishing figure of Will. His Eve had resisted temptation, but that was no reason for Lucifer to return to Heaven.

["Sigh, time for an orgy" face]

“I’d hate to disappoint my guests,” Hannibal stated finally. “The party shall proceed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO *clap* IS *clap* READY *clap* FOR *clap* THE *clap* ORGY?
> 
> Also I dunno why I find the idea of Hannibal quietly devastated over Will not liking his fancy arts and craft project so f-king funny but here we are with a whole chapter about it.


	5. That Kind of Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late but this chapter is~spicy~ so enjoy you heathens

It WAS that kind of party.

However, Hannibal was languid. Absolutely uninterested. Bedelia sat beside him in the sitting room, wearing only a black mask and absolutely nothing else. She sipped on a glass of champagne.

It was night, the sitting room was washed aflame with lit fireplaces and candles. It positively burned with red light.

And before Hannibal and Bedelia was a seas of writing bodies. Naked men and women and persons of alternative persuasions, flushed with firelight and lust, were engaging in all manner of sexual deviance. Men laid with women. Men laid with men. Women with women. And all combinations above and beyond.

“You are distracted again,” Bedelia observed. “Who is it now?”

Hannibal was silent, he was staring out the window at a distant light in the ocean of darkness outside. The distant light of a hut far across the estate.

[Pining Hannibal]

“Still?” Bedelia asked, genuinely shocked. “He must be a wondrous lay.”

Hannibal looked down, like a puppy that had just been caught doing something shameful. Bedelia nearly choked on her champagne.

“You haven’t taken him yet,” Bedelia stated with open shock.

"The seed has been planted," Hannibal answered. "but no flowers have bloomed."

He had been hasty. Pushed too much. No, it wasn't just a folly on his part. Will Graham was perceptive; he had instincts like an animal. 

“Acting demure at an orgy?” Bedelia deadpanned. “I had thought you could no longer surprise me and yet here we are. Will I ever tire of being proven wrong?” she mused aloud.

“I truly view him with the intention of friendship.” Bedelia took a long drink.

[Bedelia's "yeah sure friendship" face]

“Friendship...” she hissed softly, savoring the word. “You’ve become so accustomed to relationships based on lust that you mistake any other emotion for friendship,” Bedelia stated in her slow, casual manner. Hannibal took in the statement without betraying any indication of recognition.

“If not friendship, what should I call what I seek from Mr. Graham?” Bedelia flashed Hannibal a tired look then turned toward back towards the carnal carnage.

Hannibal never got his answer for she became distracted when a long haired individual broke from the naked masses of lust to nuzzle at her feet. Bedelia reached down, raising up their head to assess their beauty and deemed them acceptable.

“Come with me,” she said, pulling them up by the chin. “I will treat you well my dear.”

And with that, Hannibal was left alone overlooking his kingdom of sin. Any onlooker would have deemed Hannibal worth of the title of Lucifer. However, he barely registered the feast before him, and his thoughts wandered to the groundskeeper.

No doubt the man was tucked away with his dogs for the night. Perhaps eating a late supper or brewing a cup of tea to help him sleep. Did he get lonely at night? Did he...think of anyone before he slept?

He imagined Will likely pleasured himself quickly, probably in his bed on his back, eyes closed, legs slightly parted as he reached down into his pants. He’d take his cock into his own calloused rough hands and stroked himself while dreaming of being intertwined with another man. The touch starved man practically _screamed_ to be pulled into an embrace.

The thought made Hannibal's hand curl into a fist and his mouth go dry. And yet, when he looked out into the writhing masses for an outlet; he felt the passion leak out of him. What he craved was not here.

Hannibal’s eyes fell on a beautiful Italian man with soft brown locks similar to the visage of Mr. Graham. The Duke vaguely recalled his name was Anthony, a visiting scholar who lived for the thrill of pleasure. The man was deeply inserted inside of a woman, while his throat was stuffed with the phallus of Francis Dolarhyde, one of Hannibal's regular pets. Hannibal rose from his seat at the head of the sexual carnage and walked to where the look-a-like was engaged in sexual parlay.

Anthony was being roughly face fucked. Dolarhyde's cock dripped with cum and saliva as it slid in and out of his throat. Hannibal watched the scene with mild interest, indulging in a moment’s imagination that it was the groundskeeper in Anthony’s place.

What a lovely sight it would have been to behold, to watch the prideful groundskeeper reduced to his base desires. How lovely those hardened and elusive eyes, which always avoided Hannibal’s gaze, would look as they turned hazy with lust. Did he feel hunger, Hannibal wondered?

That is what he truly wanted to know when he asked Will “Have you known hunger?” Not hunger for sustenance, but hunger for depravity. Did he crave sweet release from the suffocation of life?

He reached out and grabbed Anthony by the throat, feeling how the muscles convulsed as the other man’s dick pulled in and out.

The face of Anthony blurred in Hannibal’s eye, becoming the rough face of the man out of Hannibal’s reach. Hannibal grabbed the head of Anthony and ripped him away from the cock he was devouring. Anthony chuckled and licked his lips; his face alight with delight.

“Your grace--” he began, his voice raw from the throat pounding.

“You should not speak.” His voice was all wrong. Too high (and too happy to see him). It ruined the illusion. “Francis,” Hannibal addressed. The man's lightly disfigured face jerked to attention. “Mount him from behind.”

"Yes, sir," Francis nodded, ever obedient. He was a good pet: fit, powerful, and loyal.

The woman under Anthony, pulled him down into a kiss, wrapping their tongues together. He moaned into her mouth as Francis's cock slid up against his entrance. He glanced up, making eye contact with Hannibal when the cock pierced him. His eyes fluttered with pleasure, a groan spilling out from his mouth as he was rocked forward—simultaneously being fucked and further fucking the woman beneath him. The three people became one fused being of passion.

This, Hannibal thought to himself, was what Mr. Graham should become. A piece of meat. An entertaining animal. Yet another body featured Hannibal’s flesh mosaic.

He ought to be passed around from lover to lover. Pinned down by the grasping lustful hands of strangers seeking to feed off of his beauty and strength and ridden into oblivion while his mouth was stuffed with the phallus of a man. His long locks deserved to be pulled back so that his throat could be better fucked. His rough hands, calloused from cutting wood and digging into soil, should be used to choke any transgressor who displeased him, before he threw them to the ground and lowered himself onto their cock. Hannibal wanted to see his head tossed back in ecstasy, to watch him fly high on the drink of lust. Being fucked, fucking other, mixing his semen with sweat until he was drained and panting from satisfying exhaustion.

Anthony reached out for Hannibal—his hand smelling of sex. He wished to be looked upon and rewarded for his performance. Hannibal stroked his hair, running his fingers through the brown locks lazily. He traced the curve of the man’s cheek, gently scraping his thumb against his neck. Then his fingers found lips, and Hannibal’s digits were pulled into a wet slippery mouth.

The action...disgusted him.

Normally, Hannibal would have enjoyed a willing and wanting partner or two. But all he felt as his fingers were rolled between the other man’s tongue was distaste.

He stood, pulling his fingers away, and wiped his hand on his lapel. Anthony looked disappointed, but his disappointment was quickly forgotten as the woman beneath him pulled him back down to lock lips and his Francis rolled deeper into him. The three moaned and melded.

Hannibal surveyed the red glowing swarm of gleaming, sweaty bodies and felt...empty. As unmoored as the Ancient Mariner adrift upon a cursed vessel after shooting the albatross. His eyes fell onto the black windows, and the distant light.

Will tossed a log onto the small fire he had built outside his hut. The dogs were piled up atop each other beside him. They were tired after a long day of playing amongst the trees and Will viewed them with a warm smile.

“How did he treat you during the portrait?” Alana asked. She looked concerned. Admittedly, her concern wasn’t misplaced. Will had fallen on the Duke’s path.

“I thought you didn’t believe the rumors?” Will asked her. She looked down at the cup of spiced cider in her hands.

“I don’t...”

“Don’t believe or don’t want too?” Will asked. She stared into the flames of the fire, unable to give an answer. “You owe him a lot,” Will said gently.

“He was my mentor and sponsor,” Alana said. “All the brains and intelligence in the world wouldn’t have gotten me as far as this. Not in this lifetime. Thanks to him--”

“And your brains and intelligence,” Will injected, raising his cup of spiced cider to her in a toast. Alana smiled reluctantly, her face softening for the first time since she had come to Will.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Thanks to him and my brains and intelligence, I’ve my own income, a room of my own, and security. I’ve no need to shackle myself to a man and be bred for children like a dairy cow.”

“You’re still shackled to a man,” Will pointed out.

“I don’t disagree,” Alana said with a sigh. Her eyes fell back on the flames. “But better and employer than a husband.”

Will was reminded of young Abigail who dreamed of Paris and writing. He wondered if there was any woman in his life who stomach did not turn at the thought of matrimony. He doubted Beverly dreamed of white veils. Not when she kept on pulling maids and butlers into shadowy corners.

“He collects people Will,” Alana went on. “Abigail will continue on his name. Bedelia is the only woman acceptably close to his standing that he can talk too. And me, a shepherd to Abigail. But you...” she trailed off.

“What of me?” Will encouraged. He wanted to hear Alana verbalize the truth she was trying so hard to skirt around.

“We are all valuable him in some way. Belinda has her standing. My educational background shields me. And Abigail is protected by the fatherly shield of parenthood and legacy.”

“Yes, I get it,” Will cut it. “I’m a womb less, penniless, uneducated peasant.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say...though it is true,” Alana quietly agreed, before rushing forward with the conversation. “I’m saying that the only possible thing he could want from you is...” Alana trailed off again and Will leaned back, waiting. He took a long sip of cider.

“Yes?” he challenged; one eyebrow raised. The blush on Alana’s face was not from the glow of the fire.

When even a person has no status, no money, or no skills—they will at least have their body.

“You know what I’m implying. He seeks to...corrupt you...” Will nonchalantly took a drink of his spiced cider and stifled a yawn. “Are you not concerned?” Alana pressed.

“Why should I be?” Will scoffed.

“He is a _Duke_ ," Alana emphasized.

"Aye,” Will agreed with a nod. “But I am exactly as you say—an unremarkable commoner. I’ve no reputation to be soiled. No fortune to lose. I’ve only my dogs and myself, and I can re-locate as a please. I fear no title, not even one of Duke.”

“He can make it so that nobody will hire you.” Will leaned forward and tossed a log onto the fire, unbothered.

“A simple change of name and nobody will be the wiser,” Will waved away.

“Oh, to have the freedom of a penis...” Alana muttered with a wistful sigh. She swirled the drink her her hand aimlessly. 

“And how is Margot?” Will asked with a knowing look. Alana shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted and soon broke into a held back smile.

“Well,” Alana answered as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. A pleased smile graced her face.

“I dare say, if the fair Lady Freddie Lounds knew how close she had been to uncovering the _greatest_ scandal--”

“Cease your teasing,” Alana said. She dropped her face into her hands and groaned. “The thought alone of how _close_ that woman was to me and Margot in the garden...Thank God you were there.”

“God had nothing to do with it,” Will waved away. “You’ll find it was the opposite of god. Twas dog.” Will patted Ellie on the back the back. Alana smiled then, but it was a smile tinged with guilt and sadness.

“I am so sorry to have dragged you into this,” she apologized.

“We must protect each other,” Will stated simply. “You’d do the same for me. Besides, like I said, the Duke has no hold over me. A simple change of name and I am free. It’s not like he can describe me to every local farmhand and ban them from hiring me.”

“He’d need a way to spread your image around to do that," Alana agreed.

A thought struck the both of them at the same time.

“He hasn’t finished your portrait yet...right?” Alana asked slowly. Will clicked his tongue and took a draft of his drink.

“Perhaps...” he confessed with some reluctance. “I was a _tiny_ bit...hasty in my agreement to pose for him.”

“At last, the great William Graham admits a folly,” Alana said. She finished her cup and set it down. “But I should go. A man and a woman alone at night...people shall talk.”

“Let them, it’s unfair for the Duke to be the only one with rumors,” Will remarked. Alana pulled up the hood of her dark cloak, effectively masking her in the night, and disappeared into darkness. Will reached down for the wooden figure he had been whittling and pulled out his wood carving knife.

The night settled around him comfortably; the fire crackling mingled with the sounds of the forest and the breathing of his fur pack. As he worked on his carving, he paused to glance up at the mansion. It was difficult to see at night, like a ghost ship far off at sea. However, it was possible to view the far-off illuminated windows of the sitting room that he and Hannibal had conversed in.

Completely forgetting the party for a moment, he wondered what activities the Duke was up to at his hour. Perhaps another painting session with a mistress. He could still feel the phantom gaze of those maroon eyes which had tried to burrow into his soul during their own painting session. Then he recalled the party invitation that Hannibal had extended to him and the rumors rose up in his mind.

Will put down his carving, feeling slightly flushed and unbuttoned his shirt collar. He rose, a sudden desire to cool off overtaking him. Ellie looked up at him from her place in the fur pile.

“It’s because of the fire,” Will said.

She didn’t look like she believed him, and Will couldn’t blame her.

“Listen this is all to cover for you, I hope you know that.” She snuggled back down into the fur pile, completely unbothered, and fell back into blissful sleep. Will paced back and forth around the fire, feeling restless.

From the dog pile, Buster’s ears twitched; then he raised his head from the pack pile and looked out into the darkness. Will noticed the movement and matched his stare—searching for whatever Buster had noticed. From the darkness, he heard the subtle and soft padding of approaching feet on grass.

“Did you forget something?” Will called out, thinking it must be Alana.

The approaching visage began to take shape; it was too large to be Alana. Acting almost on autopilot, Will walked backwards, never fully taking his eyes off the figure, and picked up the axe. Gradually, the figure’s features became more apparent as they approached the fire: broad shoulders, a long and confident stride, and a gentleman’s suit.

“Your lord grace,” Will greeted, taken aback slightly. He set the axe down, feeling inexplicably reluctant to part with it. He always felt slightly on edge around the Duke, as if some caveman instinct buried in his DNA sensed a predator.

“Yes,” Hannibal said. He leaned forward a little, his hands behind his back, and took on a conspiratorial tone. “Was another expected?” he whispered.

“Any visitor is a surprise at this time of the night,” Will answered briskly. Hannibal’s head raised slightly, like a hound sniffing the air. The fire crackled as a log shifted into black dust and a plume of sparks shot into the sky between them. Wills restlessly increased in the presence of the Duke. He crossed his arms then sniffed—remembering his manners. “Please, take a seat.” He extended the offer with explicit reluctance.

“Ah yes, upon this seat which has been laid out for nobody,” Hannibal openly observed. The corner of Will’s lips quirked up; he licked his lips and rolled his head away to hide the pleased facial tick. The betrayal of his body taking joy from Hannibal's speech irked him, but he couldn’t deny the devil his dues.

Source: https://nbchannibaldaily.tumblr.com/

Will looked at the stool and then answered,

“For Winston.”

“The dog.”

“Yes, the dog.”

Will took his own seat and picked up his whittling to resumed his carving. The flecks of wood flicked off with every sharp jerk of his hand.

“What brings you here?”

The Duke unbuttoned jacket of his suit before taking his seat and smoothed the fabric of the vest below upon being seated.

“I thought I might take a sketch of you.” Will took in the Duke’s empty hands—his strong, defined hands with the power to split a log in one stroke.

“Ah yes, with the sketchbook and charcoal you do not possess,” Will openly observed, mirroring Hannibal. A similar facial tick graced Hannibal’s face, a small twitch of the mouth, and then a drop of his head to gaze at his empty hands.

“We are a queer pair are we not,” Hannibal stated, he had taken to staring into the flames. “Unlikely men to share a friendship.”

“Is that why you’ve come?” Will asked, he blew the dust off of his carving. “To converse as friends?” The way Hannibal frequently looked at him could hardly be called friendly. A starved lioness circling a wounded zebra looked doe-eyed in comparison.

“You’ve caught me in a lie,” Hannibal confessed. “I had come with the intention of re-extending my invitation.” Will watched the uncertainty wash over the Duke’s face, and questioned whether it was a calculated display or genuine. “But now that I am here...I feel less convicted to that prospect.”

“I did see that your sitting room was alight,” Will said conversationally. He meant no deeper meaning behind it, but Hannibal’s eyes twitched up to stare intently at his groundskeeper.

“You too were watching?” he asked, with an uncharacteristically soft tone. Will’s brow furrowed in confusion. _Had Hannibal been watching him?_

“Of course, your grace,” Will answered frankly, gesturing with his knife to the obscenely large vision of opulence. “Your villa takes up the entirety of my background.”

“Ah, of course,” Hannibal agreed with a nod. “It is not like your little hut, so small and difficult to see from afar.” Will jerked the knife with a little too much force, nearly decapitating his carving, and accidentally nicking his pointer finger. He winced in pain. A thin red line formed on the surface of his finger, then blood welled from the wound. Instinctively, he raised the wound to his mouth and sucked at the blood.

Hannibal’s shoulders straighten with the attention of a shark who had caught a scent. He stood, drawing himself up to his full height, and crossed over to Will in three even strides to kneel down before the groundskeeper. Firelight played against the quietly concerned depths of his eyes.

“Let me see,” he offered.

Will felt oddly embarrassed. Embarrassed wasn’t quiet the right word; concern was a rare emotion for him to be on the receiving end—especially from a man his superior. He didn’t have the background to know how to react. Habit told him to look away, to retreat and re-buff the attention, but he didn’t want to do that with Hannibal. The terrible intimacy of Hannibal requesting to aid him in the dim firelight overwhelmed Will’s social awkwardness.

“It’s shallow.” Will held his hand out for Hannibal to see and felt clumsy. But Hannibal appeared to take the offering with great reverence.

The tips of the man’s fingers ran along the underside of Will’s hand with great care, the soft brush of them electrifying Will’s spine. Then the older man’s palm pressed against Will’s hand with a caress as tender as a butterfly kissing the stamen of an orchid.

Will could not remember the last time he had been touched. Not in the brisk familial manner with which Alana might tidy his clothes, nor the friendly, hardy way that Beverly would clap him on the back—but touched with delicacy. Touched with intent.

His breathing slowed. The air between them held each other’s breathing and scents. Hannibal’s head was bent over the palm of his hand, examining the cut. The orange glow of the fire warmed his face, softening the hard edges and sharp eyes. For a passing moment, Will could almost believe the gentile façade of the man before him.

“Are you a doctor as well as a priest?” Will asked. He tried to fill his voice with the same bitter sarcasm that he had brandished before, but his heart was not in it. Instead, the question came out soft and hushed. “You appear to seek to heal not just my soul, but my body as well.”

“I would not presume to play God,” Hannibal answered, pulling a white handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Then I would not be able to seek forgiveness.” He cleaned the wound with the clean cloth; red blooded against its white, unsullied threads.

“Forgiveness for what?” Will pressed. He could feel every centimeter of skin that Hannibal’s touched, his hand burning from the tenderness.

At this distance, he could reach out to touch Hannibal’s hair. Perhaps run a hand over his cheek, stroking the curve of his jawline with the back of this palm.

The fire cracked, sparks floating up into the sky as another log fell prey to the consuming flames and turned to black cinder. The fire was growing low; it needed to be fed another log, but Will’s attention was wholly on the man kneeling before him.

“I wish to know you...Will...”

This time, the statement was a question. The use of Will’s name, whispered by Hannibal like a hushed prayer, was query for permission. _May I push forward?_

It would have been a strange scene to walk in upon. The dying cinders illuminating the two men with dark, low light that cast their shadows across the grass. Hannibal, a duke, a man of power, wealth, influence, kneeling before Will like he was proposing to the disheveled man who spent his days laboring unseen.

Will felt vengeful. A bitter desire to twist the snake who tried to coil around his neck not one days ago.

“What if I’ve no wish to know you, dear duke?” Will inquired. In truth, he never felt a greater need to touch another before. Hannibal’s face, so tantalizingly close, was so deserving of a caress--a reward for Hannibal’s prostration. Like Will might reward one of his dogs with a pet and a ‘good boy’. “I confess, I don’t find you very interesting.”

“I think you will, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal answered with eyes as unreadable as a blank page. “But if that is your true wish...I shall retreat and call upon you no longer.” His words reflected his expression, already an internal retreat taking place.

Will’s need to nurture grew. He extended out his free hand, skimming the surface of Hannibal’s cheek with his finger--the softest of touch, yet Hannibal’s eyes fluttered up to meet Will’s. He looked interested; eye filled with calculating curiosity—awaiting Will’s next move.

“When Mary Magdalene washed the feet of Christ,” Will began, choosing his words with great care. “She washed them with her tears and dried them with her hair.”

Will watched Hannibal’s chest tighten and relax with a deep breath, even while the Duke’s face remained perfectly controlled.

“How would you propose to wash me?” Will asked. Never breaking eye contact with Will, Hannibal raised Will’s hand to his mouth. It was a courtly gesture seen a hundred times by men raising up the hands of ladies to press a chaste kiss against their knuckles. But with Hannibal kneeling, the act was closer to that of a subject kissing the hand of their sovereign. Holding Will’s hand palm up, the duke lowered his head.

He kissed Will’s fingers innocently; his lips barely making contact with Will’s rough, callous skin. Will’s fingers twitched involuntarily, little sparks running up his nerves.

Then, Hannibal’s mouth opened; a dark, cavern that promised calamity and titillation, and he took the tip of Will’s bleeding finger and pressed it between his lips. He sucked gently, taking in Will’s blood while his warm tongue pressed against the cut and sent a shiver to Will’s manhood. Dutifully, he cleaned Will’s wound with his mouth.

Will’s other hand, which had stoked Hannibal’s cheek, rose to brush a strand of hair from Hannibal's face and push it back behind his ear.

Will felt oddly calm. A tight little ball of warmth was pulsing in his chest, but his outer shell of a body was relaxed. He was both in awe of the situation, and not surprised by it. If rumors were to be believed, and Will believed them, then the duke thrived in depravity. What was more depraved than subservience to a servant? Of course, Hannibal wasn’t truly submitting—his eyes were not that of prey.

source: https://midwesthorror.tumblr.com/

Hannibal kept eye contact with Will, taking in the sight of the man who loomed over him with avid interest. The gesture was an invitation wrapped in the skin of forgiveness. _Show me_ , Hannibal’s eyes beckoned, _show me your metamorphosis._

Will’s free hand skimmed down Hannibal’s jawline and ran down to this throat, feeling the ligaments and muscles below the skin, before wrapping around the back of Hannibal’s neck. He held the other man in place, establishing that Hannibal was there for Will.

The Duke’s dark eyes welcomed the action. He lifted up Will’s hand further, kissing Will’s other fingers... treating each like precious art made of eggshells...and then he kissed Will’s palm...taking care to rain affection upon the various patches of hard skin that resulted from Will’s life of labor. Every kiss was a flutter of chaste, intimate affection. And with every kiss, Will found himself leaning forward without realizing, as if pulled on a string. He could smell the soap that Hannibal used and the lather from Hannibal’s shave, but other than that, the man smelled like almost nothing. A rarity in the world of grime and dirt that Will occupied.

By the time Hannibal reached Will’s wrist, the most delicate and sensitive area of the hand, Will was inches away from Hannibal. Will’s breathing was steady but deep, anticipating Hannibal's lips upon his pulsing wrist.

Hannibal’s lips lowered, pressing against the skin of Will’s wrist, and Will’s breathing hitched.

The wrist. So unassuming was the wrist. But it held the pulse of Will’s heart and remained untouched by the callouses of labor like the rest of Will’s hand, leaving the nerve receptors of the epidermis fully receptive to Hannibal’s devoted attack.

The action made Will’s cock partially harden and he shifted his thighs, ever so slightly.

He found himself fixating on Hannibal’s mouth. How delicious and soft the inside of it must have felt. The clever tongue of Hannibal, so often sharp enough to cut people with his wit, or silence them into submission with a word, was at Will’s disposal. To use as Will liked. He wondered how far he could go, how deep was Hannibal’s offer of _forgiveness._

Then Hannibal placed a hand on Will’s thigh; the caress sent a pool of blood crashing to Will’s cock. Possibly, it was only to steady himself, he was kneeling after all. But the gesture was done with such deliberate care that it was impossible to misinterpret as anything but Hannibal requesting to know Will more intimately.

The thick silence around them, penetrated only the by occasional flickering crack of the fire and the sound of their own breathing, was like an unspoken spell. Neither of them spoke, lest the spell be broken, but the agreement between them was wholly understood.

Will took his wounded hand away from Hannibal, and undid the binding of his trousers.

Hannibal waited for Will. The hand he placed upon Will’s thigh gently stroked up and down the other man’s leg with easy reassurance. In turn, Will did not rush the process of unveiling his manhood. The ritual felt almost like dining, as if Will was feeding Hannibal, like a servant lifting up the silver cover of a dish. _Here is your meal_ , my Duke, _now eat it._

Finally, Will finished freeing himself. His cock was half hard from Hannibal’s gentle caressing, and indeed, the Duke looked as if he was about to tuck into a meal. He ran a hand down his clothes from the base of his neck to his chest, smoothing the material to avoid creasing, before bending down to kiss Will’s cock.

Hannibal, went slow, savoring and worshiping the feast before him. He started at Will’s base, nuzzling the cervices where scrotum met shaft, and licked a long, wet line up Will’s rapidly growing cock. Will couldn’t suppress the shudder of pleasure that ran through him, nor the soft groan of satisfaction. Will’s hand was still on the other man’s neck, and he offered encouraging massages and small affectionate squeezed when Hannibal did something Will liked. Like when Hannibal licked the bead of pre-cum from the slit of Will’s head.

Will had never reflected deeply upon the power dynamics of a servicing a man’s cock. But as he watched Hannibal service him with dedication, he understood the desire to forcefully fuck the face of another. There was something so powerful about the open willingness of a partner to be completely enamored with pleasuring you. And in that openness, you wanted to plunge deeper.

However, there was something special about it being Hannibal. The man who virtually owned Will, was willingly sucking his cock.

Vaguely, Will was also aware of how exposed they were. The fire was too low now for anyone to be able to make out anything from afar aside from vague shapes. He was sure Hannibal had timed it. Nevertheless, they were out in the open with no walls to hide them; anyone could stumble upon Hannibal pleasuring him.

Freddie would have given her right leg to see this.

Will cupped Hannibal’s cheek, stopping the man mid-service. Hannibal looked up at him, their eyes locking with dark lust. Again, the silence thick with unspoken but understood agreement. Will ran a finger over Hannibal’s mouth, now moist and soft, and began to open it. With his hand on the back of Hannibal’s neck, he encouraged Hannibal forward, and the tip of Will’s dripping cock pressed against Hannibal's parted lips.

Will watched as his cock slid into Hannibal’s open, awaiting mouth—all the while maroon eyes burned into his soul. It was hotter than Will expected, so hot and soft that Will thought his flesh would melt against the wet warmth of Hannibal's tongue and inner cheeks. His cock skimmed against the ridges of the top of Hannibal’s mouth on its way to the throat; briefly, he could also feel Hannibal’s teeth scrap against his sensitive skin. A satisfied gasp parted from Will’s lips as he inserted himself down Hannibal all the way to the base of his cock.

Will slid his free hand into Hannibal's hair, gripping it as he directed Hannibal to suck his cock. The two men descended into sweet chaos. Hannibal’s hand, which had previously gripped Will gently on the thigh, now gripped him tightly with encouraging squeezes. It was clear, that Will’s enjoyment was as much Hannibal's as it was his own. The hot pleasure pulsating off in waves from Will’s cock floated up his spine and made Will’s head roll back with a satiated sigh. He passively enjoyed Hannibal's servicing, letting each warm wave pulsate throughout his body.

Hannibal was very good at servicing him. A little too good. It irritated Will as much as it pleased him. For the first time, he felt compelled to break the silence.

“When I called you Mary Magdalene,” Will said, his voice slightly dreamy but with a curt undertone. “I had no idea you shared her whorish identity to this degree.” He tightened his grip on Hannibal’s hair, and pushed himself deeper into the man’s throat. Hannibal took the punishment with ease, almost smiling at Will’s aggressiveness.

“I thought you a useless, conceited man,” Will continued, he placed a foot upon Hannibal's crotch, and was deeply amused to find the Duke was swollen with desire. Hannibal groaned when Will stepped upon him. “But I see you have your use now.”

Then Will began to rise from his seat, no longer content to be passive. Once he was standing, he was fully able to plunge down into the throat of Hannibal, and began thrusting deeply into that hot, wet mouth. He kept a foot pressed down on Hannibal’s swollen crotch, occasionally rewarding the other man with a gentle tap of pressure.

Will took a deep breath of the night air as he again let his neck and shoulders relax and allowed the pleasure to wash over him. The sound of his cock sliding in and out of Hannibal's mouth mixed with the night atmosphere, and the smell of sweat and cum interlaced with the fire cinders. He felt his orgasm rising with in him, but felt no urgent need to tell Hannibal. _Let the man swallow his forgiveness._

Will pulled out slightly as he came, wanting his seed to spill onto Hannibal's tongue and not down his throat. It splurged out onto Hannibal's tongue. Will watched with glazed eyes as Hannibal swallowed, the muscles of his mouth tightening around Will as he did so. He didn't spill a drop. In the aftermath of his orgasm, Will cock was screaming with sensitivity. Nevertheless, he commanded Hannibal to,

“Clean.” when he pulled out, and wiped his cum laden cock against Hannibal's lips. Hannibal obeyed and licked Will clean, looking as collected as he always did.

It was Hannibal's eyes that brought Will crashing back into focus; he looked amused and approving. And the approval of a depraved man was not something Will sought. The intoxicating haze of lust was fading, and reality returned with a sharp vengeance. Will hastily fixed his pant.

Meanwhile, Hannibal flexed his hands, long fingers opening and closing as if he was re-activating control over his body. He rolled his neck from side to side, then reached out to grab the forgotten handkerchief that he had used to treat Will’s wound. Using the bloody cloth, he wiped his stained mouth with a level of dignity that should not have been afforded to a man who had just swallowed cum. And yet, Hannibal had not an ounce of shame. He tidied himself, smoothing out his hair, and re-adjusting his clothes, before rising effortlessly to his feet.

Will took a step back from him. He felt like he was dreaming. His actions, which had made perfect sense at the time—in that time of silent unspoken agreement--now felt like the actions of another man. How could he have done that? What possessed him?

And now here he was, disheveled and feeling utterly exposed before Hannibal Lector.

“You surprise me Will,” Hannibal said, fixing the cuffs of his sleeves. “That does not happen often.”

Will stared at him, having no words, but feeling... _everything_. Will felt cheated. He felt angry. He felt embarrassed. And he wasn’t sure why. Hadn’t he been in control? Hadn’t he been the one with the power?

No.

Will would never be in control. Not with Hannibal. It was all an illusion. Hannibal was the duke, and Will his subservient groundskeeper. Will dominating Hannibal was only a fantasy given by Hannibal.

“Leave,” Will said. It was all he could manage.

Hannibal looked offended. He turned to face Will fully, his hands behind his back, expressing open vulnerability through his body language. But it was all fake. Will felt his whole-body tense with the realization; it was all fake. How had Will been so foolish?

“You did not enjoy deepening our bond?” Hannibal asked.

“You,” Will accused tensely. “You pulled me into your warped fantasy. That was not for me, that was for you.” Hannibal tilted his head slightly and blinked.

“Me?” the Duke queried. “I came seeking forgiveness, William.”

Will circled to the other side of the fire pit. It was embers now.

“What part of that was an apology?” Will challenged.

“In your metaphor you cast me as the Magdalene, which makes you Christ. Catholics believe that consuming the body of Christ during communion imbues them with his forgiveness,” Hannibal stated. “Think of this as a similar ritual.”

“I don’t even know what you’re seeking forgiveness for,” Will snapped. Hannibal was unperturbed by the outburst.

“I did not finish your portrait.”

The audacity. The insolence. The depth of Hannibal’s ego truly knew no bounds. Never mind Hannibal twisting Will’s hand by holding the life of Ellie in the balance. Never mind Hannibal probing into Will’s past like a child poking a slug. Never mind Hannibal overstepping Will’s boundaries. No, it was the portrait that the bastard chose to bring up.

“You are tired,” Hannibal stated. “I will take my leave. Get some rest.”

"Good night Duke Lector," Will spat.

"Sweet dream, Mr. Graham."

The last fire ember smoldered out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia probably: Hannibal, you okay? You barely touched your gender and sexuality inclusive orgy with a Will Graham look-alike.
> 
> Also, yes, I'll never be over how sexually charged Hannibal cleaning Will's hands was.
> 
> Also, also, this will probably be more than 6 chapters.


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